


All That I Am

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Amnesia, False Memories, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rough Sex, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:26:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alex regains consciousness after a massive explosion he has no memory of who he is. Yassen, on the other hand, has very definite opinions on who and what he wants Alex to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That I Am

**Author's Note:**

> (i) Contains a spoiler for Scorpia Rising.

Half obscured by smoke, the street could have belonged to any city in the world. Blank-faced warehouses stared down onto a deserted stretch of pitted concrete, cracked in places by encroaching weeds.

Here, though, it was more than cracked. A pile of rubble spewed out into the roadway, still subsiding with a slithering, grinding persistence. The smoke was coming from the remains of the building behind it. Every so often a large chunk would become detached and crash down to the tumbled bricks three storeys below.

In the distance, approaching sirens were getting louder. Closer by, a dog was barking, frantic with alarm and anger, on and on.

A sudden breeze carried the worse of the smoke away down the street, revealing more of the debris. In one place, a trickle of brick dust became a rattle of crumbled masonry, as something beneath the surface disturbed the pile.

Groping upwards like blind worms, dust-caked fingers suddenly burst through the surface, clutching fruitlessly at the air for a second before realising what the lack of resistance meant, and the effort behind the scrabbling hand was redoubled. A moment later a second hand appeared, followed by a head and shoulders and then the rest of a body, forcing its way stubbornly out of a premature burial, before finally sprawling across the remains of what was once the front of a packing warehouse, bleeding and choking but defiantly alive.

\--

He opened his eyes. Blue sky was visible a long way up, and the ground beneath him was uncomfortably hard. Shifting position brought a spike of pain, and he struggled into a sitting position, gasping. Looked around at the devastation, and shuddered. Remembered coming to in pitch darkness, protected by a concrete joist from the worst of the collapse. Forcing his way through the rubble in a blind panic, heedless of the danger to himself, working on instinct towards the surface. 

Realised he didn’t know what had happened. Was it an explosion? A bomb? Felt his head, gingerly, realised his face was clotted with blood. Clothes were torn and filthy. Where was he?

Half crawled, half slid off the pile of debris, bruising his hands and legs, but wanting suddenly to get away from there. It was only when he was standing shakily on the road, missing one of his shoes, that he realised he didn’t know where to go, for the simple reason he didn’t know where he was. 

London, was his first thought, although he didn’t know why – but the buildings didn’t look quite right. And it wasn't until that point, that all the confused thoughts running through his head suddenly coalesced into one inescapable, marrow-chilling truth.

That not only did he not know where he was – he didn’t know who he was, either.

\--

The sirens he'd been vaguely aware of abruptly resolved into the flashing lights and rumbling engines of emergency vehicles turning into the street, heading towards the scene of the blast.

For reasons he didn’t quite understand, he turned and started running the other way. 

\--

He didn't run far. Barely to the far end of the street before his body reminded him rather forcibly he'd just had half a building fall on him, and things started going fuzzy.

Turning into the cross street, he was aware of a group of men standing around two big black expensive looking cars. They looked out of place in the area, and turned to regard the approaching figure with startled eyes. He saw one or two reach inside their jackets, and was about to turn and run back the way he'd come, but his body wouldn’t obey him, and he swayed.

Then one of the men stepped forward, an ironic smile on his lips. 

"I might have known if anyone made it out it would be you."

He stared, trying to take in the information. 

"You know me?" he croaked, through bloody and cracked lips.

The man took another step forward, frowning now, taking in his appearance.

"Alex?" 

_Alex? Was that him?_

The world seemed to be swaying, and just before it all went black he was faintly aware of the man darting forward to catch him as he crumpled.

\--

Alex opened his eyes for the third time that afternoon and immediately wished he hadn’t, as a pounding ache immediately started up in his head. At least this time he seemed to be lying on something softer.

He shifted, careful of the bits of his body that seemed to hurt like hell, and looked around him. He was lying in the middle of a large wooden framed bed, in a room he didn’t recognise. Not that that meant anything, he reflected miserably, as a brief mental interrogation revealed he still had no clue who he was.

 _Alex_ , that man had called him. Had _he_ brought him here? He realised he'd been washed, and his wounds cleaned and dressed. He was wearing a cotton shirt that was too big for him, and nothing else.

The realisation made him flush, and he sat up. And jumped.

Leaning in the doorway was his – rescuer?

He inclined his head slightly as Alex stared at him, but gave nothing else away, waiting for Alex to speak.

He was tall and slim, with close cropped blonde hair, and his arms folded in front of him. Blue jeans, and a shirt that appeared to be the twin of the one Alex was currently wearing.

Alex moistened his lips. "Where am I?"

"My apartment. One of them, anyway."

"What city?"

The man frowned, pushing himself away from the doorframe and padding lightly into the room.

"You don't know?"

"I – don’t remember." Alex fought down the rising feeling of panic, telling himself that he didn’t appear to be in danger, that this man hadn't offered him threats or violence – had done nothing but help him.

But he remembered the man's companions, reaching for their guns. He remembered that he'd been in a building that had apparently been blown up.

"New York." The blonde man sat carefully on the edge of the bed, moving slowly as if trying not to startle Alex.

Alex processed this information. 

"You're not American." The man had the faintest of accents, something Eastern European, or Russian perhaps. 

"Neither are you." The faint smile was back, and Alex found he was staring at the man's lips. Shook himself.

"I don’t remember."

"You don’t remember where you're from?" 

"I don’t remember who I am." Saying it out loud abruptly made it real, and Alex looked up with genuine fear in his eyes. "What happened to me? Why can't I remember?" 

The man held out his hand, rested it on Alex's shoulder, calmingly. 

"Hey. It's alright. You are safe here." 

"But who _am_ I?" Alex pleaded.

The man stared at him, consideringly. "You really don’t remember?"

Alex shook his head.

"Your name is Alex Rider. You're nineteen years old. British."

Alex took this in, then shook his head again. "It doesn’t mean anything to me." He bit his lip, swallowing the panic. "Who are you?" 

"My name is Yassen. Yassen Gregorovich." Yassen paused, then reached out and stroked Alex's cheek. "You don’t remember me either?" he murmured.

Alex shook his head, caught in the clear blue gaze. "Are we – what, friends? Colleagues?"

"Both those things. And – more. Get some rest Alex, you need to be stronger. Then I will tell you everything."

Confused, scared and hurting, Alex nonetheless lay back down on the soft mattress, comforted by the calm manner of his – friend? What had he meant by more? – and by the way Yassen had casually leaned over as he lay down, and kissed Alex lightly on the top of his head.

\--

It was dark outside when Alex woke next, and he realised two things – that he was starving hungry and desperate for a pee.

Rather unsteadily he climbed reluctantly out of the warm bed and made his way into what he hoped was an en suite bathroom. He was in luck, and after relieving himself and splashing water over his face, he also donned a towelling robe he found hanging behind the door. Feeling a little less exposed, and trying not to look at the cuts and bruises on his face in the mirror, he wandered out into the apartment.

\--

Yassen was sprawled on a leather sofa reading a book. He put it down when he saw Alex, and got to his feet. Alex's hesitant steps into the living area were met with a smile and outstretched hands, guiding him to sit on the sofa and Yassen sat back down next to him, not oppressively close, but not leaving much of a gap either.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, solicitously, and Alex rubbed his head vaguely. 

"Sore." 

"You're lucky to be alive." 

Alex looked at him uncertainly. "What happened back there? Was it a bomb?" 

Yassen nodded, gravely, and Alex looked alarmed. 

"Who set it? Shouldn’t we talk to the police or something?"

"I wouldn’t recommend that." Yassen paused, as if weighing something up. "You see – it was you, Alex."

"What? Me what?"

"That set the bomb. I don’t know what happened – something must have gone wrong. It went off while you were still inside." 

"Why would I – " Alex faltered, bewildered. 

"You were paid to." Yassen shrugged. "We both were."

"We - ?" Alex shook his head. "Who _are_ you? And for that matter, who the fuck am I?" 

Yassen leaned back against the studded leather and shrugged elegantly. "What should I call it? Mercenary? Contract killer? _Assassin_?" Alex looked poleaxed, and he smiled. "We work for the highest bidder. Whatever they want." 

"I don’t believe you," Alex croaked. 

"Why would I lie?" Yassen got to his feet and moved across the carpet. Opened a drawer in a table and to Alex's alarm pulled out a gun. It was compact, black, and lethal looking. Before Alex had time to more than half rise in sudden fear, Yassen had thrown it over to him. 

Automatically, Alex snatched it out of the air, checking it over before sitting back down. He looked up to find Yassen leaning back against the table, smirking at him.

" _What_?" 

"You checked the clip and the safety without even thinking about it." Yassen walked back over and held his hand out for the gun. "You still telling me you're not a killer Alex?"

Alex hesitated, then handed the gun back, shaken.

Yassen tossed it onto the table then sat back down next to him, trailed a fingertip over Alex's collarbone. 

He started, drawing back, and Yassen held his hands up in surrender.

"I apologise. I keep forgetting you don’t – know me."

"You said we were friends," Alex offered, tentatively.

Yassen held his gaze, steady blue eyes seemingly trying to look into his mind. 

"We are – lovers, Alex. We have been for over a year."

Alex shook his head, uncertainly. "No. I mean – we can’t be. I'm not – I mean – I – _lovers_?"

Yassen nodded, looking troubled. "I'm sorry. I know it's a lot to take in. But trust me, you're safe here." He placed his hand briefly over Alex's, then got to his feet. "Are you hungry?"

That, at least, was something Alex could be definite about.

\--

Yassen watched him eat, for the moment keeping his distance. Alex used the brief respite to try and make sense of things in his head, but no matter how he cudgelled his memory he couldn't remember anything before waking up in the rubble. His head ached, which didn’t help his clarity any, and he suddenly felt very alone.

When Alex had eaten his fill, Yassen cleared the plates in silence, and Alex found himself wishing he'd talk, even if he was telling him things he didn’t want to hear. He watched the man's back as he moved around the small kitchen area, and found himself wondering.

 _Lovers._

He'd been surprised, by that, although not especially discomfited. But if it was true – didn’t that mean he had at least some claim on comfort?

Feeling weak and shaky, he got to his feet and walked deliberately across to Yassen, who watched him approach curiously, as if waiting to see what he would do.

Alex stopped in front of him, hesitating. 

"Alex?" Yassen took a step forward, closing the gap. "What is it?"

Taking a deep breath, Alex looked up into Yassen's eyes and bit his lip.

"Hold me?" 

It came out as more of a shamed whisper, but Yassen, after blinking once in apparent surprise, immediately enfolded Alex into his arms without demur. The embrace was warm and strong and unconditional, and Alex felt himself relax a little against Yassen's chest. 

After a second he felt a hand begin stroking his hair, lightly at first, then when he didn’t object, more steadily.

" _Alex_." 

It was a whisper, nothing more, and Alex couldn’t be sure of the tone behind it, but it was enough to startle him back to himself. He felt a sudden flush of embarrassment – to be told in one breath he was some sort of cold blooded killer only to be asking for comfort like a child in the next. He pulled back, taking a steadying breath. Yassen let him go without objection, although he reached out, stroking Alex's cheek with the back of his fingers. 

"Bed, I think."

Alex nodded, wearily, then realised with a jolt that the apartment apparently only had one bedroom. Would he be expected to – 

Yassen was watching his glance at the bedroom door, and apparently reading his mind.

"Would you prefer it if I slept out here?" he asked neutrally, casually.

Alex, wrongfooted, shook his head firmly. "No. No, it's – fine."

Yassen nodded, quietly, and lead him back into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed and fidgeting with the belt of the robe, something occurred to Alex. If they _were_ lovers, then – 

"Is there any of _my_ stuff here? I mean – this is your shirt, isn’t it?"

Yassen glanced down at him, stripping his own clothes off unhurriedly. "You only flew in this morning. I presume your luggage is still in your hotel." He shrugged apologetically. "Unfortunately I don’t know which one, or we could fetch it."

"Oh." Alex took a deep breath and slid the robe off his shoulders, climbing under the covers. 

Despite himself, he couldn’t help his eyes drifting back to where Yassen was still undressing. Toned flesh, long legs with a light tan up to his thighs. Alex found himself wondering where he'd got it. Somehow couldn’t see the man lying on a beach.

Realised Yassen was now entirely naked and looked away flushing as he turned round.

To Alex's relief he pulled on a loose t-shirt and cotton pyjama bottoms before joining him in the bed. With the light out, Alex felt awkward.

"Did you want to – " he faltered, and flushed at the low laugh Yassen gave in response. 

"You've had a hell of a day," Yassen murmured, and Alex was conscious of him rolling closer, looking down at him, head propped on one hand. "Get some rest, little one."

Alex nodded, relieved. "Thank you," he whispered. 

Yassen laughed again, a low rumble that Alex was disconcerted to find was tightening things in his stomach.

"How long have we – ?"

"Just over a year." Yassen yawned delicately, and slid further down in the bed. Alex jumped as he felt an exploratory hand stroke over his stomach. It remained decently on the area protected by the shirt, but Alex found his heart rate speeding up nonetheless. 

Yassen's thumb was rubbing idly at the bottom of his ribs, and Alex bit his lip. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he could see Yassen's face barely inches from his own. This all felt strange and disorienting, but the solicitous behaviour of the other man had disarmed him and he felt a spike of gratitude as well as the faint stirrings of arousal.

A second later Yassen clicked at himself in annoyance and withdrew his hand. Alex missed the warm pressure immediately. 

"Sorry," Yassen murmured. "I keep forgetting. You probably don’t want me to touch you like that, do you?"

"I – I just – I don’t remember, I'm sorry" Alex stuttered, at a loss to make sense of how he was feeling.

Yassen sighed. "I thought – no, it doesn't matter."

"What?" Alex rolled over, facing him, face pale in the darkness.

"I thought that even if you didn’t remember – there might still be some sort of – well, attraction I suppose." He looked down, smiling ruefully. "Sorry. I don’t mean to – "

Alex felt bad, and made up his mind. 

Leaned forward and pressed his lips to Yassen's mouth, lightly but deliberately. 

Yassen started, then smiled slowly against Alex's lips, not attempting to deepen the kiss, but not pulling away. He let Alex break the kiss, took in the sight of him breathing shakily, and ran a warm hand down his upper arm.

Leaned in, slowly, giving Alex time to object. And when he didn’t, kissed him again, almost chastely at first. Slowly parting his lips against Alex's, waiting for him to follow suit. His tongue, hot against the tip of Alex's, sliding against his own, making him shiver. Yassen's arms around him now, pulling him into a loose embrace, kissing him slowly, deeply, comfortingly.

Alex settled his head in the crook of Yassen's neck, and drifted slowly off to sleep.

\--

When Alex awoke the next morning he was alone in the bed, and the sun was streaming through the windows. He stretched, then winced as parts on his body objected to the movement. Groaning slightly, he hauled himself up despite the temptation to fall back asleep, and stumbled into the shower. 

The warm stinging spray revived him somewhat, and he was feeling altogether stronger when he stepped back out into the bedroom. The first thing he saw was a couple of carrier bags on the bed that hadn't been there when he'd got up.

Curious, he investigated, and discovered they contained two sets of pants, socks, jeans and t-shirts, one fleecy over-shirt, and a leather belt. He dressed quickly, grateful for the fact Yassen seemed to know his size so well, then realised there weren't any shoes.

He padded, barefoot, into the living room, blue jeans and a white t-shirt, hair still damp. 

Yassen looked up and closed the lid of the laptop he'd been working on, smiled approvingly.

"You look better."

Alex nodded, feeling oddly shy. "Thank you for the clothes."

Yassen waved away the gratitude with a gesture. "I don’t know your shoe size, and I threw away the ruined one without checking," he said apologetically. "But I guess you don't need to go out anytime soon, do you?" he laughed, and Alex shook his head.

"Guess not."

"Hungry?" Yassen got to his feet, obligingly, and Alex curled into the warm place he'd vacated on the leather sofa.

"I could eat a horse."

\--

Two days passed. Alex, finding he was still rather disoriented and achy, spent them mostly dozing and occasionally flicking the channels on the TV. Yassen went out a couple of times, but never for very long, and eventually settled next to Alex on the sofa with a book. 

Alex found he was relaxing into the Russian's quiet, measured way of going about things, and more than once woke from a nap to find he'd rested his head against the other man's shoulder, a pressure Yassen bore without complaint, however long Alex had slept for.

While Yassen had given Alex an outline of who he was – who both of them were, for that matter – he had professed it wiser to let Alex remember in his own time, and that he should be patient. At the end of the second day, Alex sighed with such frustration that Yassen looked up in surprise. 

"What's wrong, little one?"

"What do you think?" Alex muttered, miserably. "I thought it would come back, that I'd have remembered by now."

Yassen came over and looked down at him thoughtfully. "Me too," he murmured. "That it hasn't – suggests it might be a while yet."

Alex gave a wordless moan of anguished irritation, and Yassen sat down next to him. 

"Perhaps I could – take your mind off things," he said, neutrally. 

Alex swallowed, taking his meaning immediately. In the two nights they'd slept next to each other, Yassen had done nothing more than put an arm round him. Now though, despite his careful words, he was looking at Alex with something like covetous hunger. 

The look in his eyes made Alex shiver, and not unpleasantly. There was something horribly alluring about being wanted that much.

"I – " Alex hesitated, torn between wanting to see where this went, and a fear of – what? he wondered. Decided it was just that he didn’t remember ever being with this man – with any man. Or woman, for that matter, he conceded. 

The idea didn’t repel him, on the contrary, he'd found himself following Yassen round the flat with his eyes and wondering what it would be – had been – like.

As if reading his thoughts, Yassen leaned forward, brushing the lightest of kisses to his lips. 

"I won’t hurt you Alex," he whispered. "I promise. It'll be like the first time."

\-- 

He let Yassen lead him by the hand into the bedroom, and raised no objection as the Russian slowly undressed him, and then himself. It was warm and comforting to sink into the Russian's arms, and Yassen kept his word, kissing and stroking Alex with a gentleness that left him gasping in wonder. 

When Yassen finally took him, it was with equal unhurried care, lingering kisses and hot, wet exploration, moving inside him with infinite patience, first with fingers and then his slick, hard cock, hardly hurting at all, thrusting in with unbearable slowness until Alex himself cried out for Yassen to increase the speed and force, bucking against him helplessly.

He came with a gasping shudder, held tightly in Yassen's arms, feeling the heat of Yassen's release inside him seconds later, and kissing him with an open mouthed passion, their coupling ending more frenzied than it had begun.

\--

Days turned into weeks. Still Alex's memory didn’t return, and by now even Yassen seemed surprised. 

One day, he broke the news. They were moving on, a job that couldn’t be delayed any longer.

The flight out was spent in almost silence, Alex's gut twisting at the thought of what lay ahead. Because what Yassen had explained was that he – Alex – would need to make the kill. Because he couldn’t remember, Yassen had said he would need to learn all over again. That it was important that he did it as soon as possible. And so he stared out at the clouds passing below, and dreaded the landing.

\--

Mexico. Hot, oppressive. 

Lying on a baked hard roof, sweat running between his shoulderblades, but cold inside from head to toe. Gun in his hands, smooth and deadly, a high powered rifle with laser sights. The target, walking out of the bar in the distance, up close and personal in the cross hairs.

A bad man, this. A drug baron, a murderer, a gun runner. Yassen had laid out the reports, the photos, put the evidence before him the night before. A man who – if Alex had been told he'd been shot – he wouldn’t have spared another second thinking about. A man who – if Yassen had taken the shot – he wouldn't have lost any sleep over. But it was to be him. Him. He felt sick, and the target swam in his vision.

"Squeeze it gently," Yassen whispered, one hand resting on Alex's hip, bracing him. "Gently and carefully. And remember it will kick."

Alex swallowed, throat tight and mouth dry. The man was right in his sights, but any moment now, he would move away, the moment would be lost.

It was now or never.

And he'd done this before. Yassen had told him, what he'd done. Shown him photos of the victims. All deserving, in their own way, of a premature ending.

He didn’t have to do this. He could turn away, refuse, confess his weakness.

But then all that would happen was that Yassen would take the shot. Inaction wouldn't save the life.

And he wanted to prove himself, now. To Yassen. To himself. He wanted to do this. He was almost sure.

Alex pulled the trigger.

Dimly, as if through a fogged window, he saw the man crumple, saw the people around him leap to their feet, was aware of shouting, tumult. Also, aware of Yassen's hands on him, taking the gun, pulling him away, down, dismantling the gun, bundling him into a car.

He was barely conscious of the drive back to their hotel, his next clear memory was sitting on the bed and Yassen sitting next to him. Burying his face in Yassen's chest and being held tightly, being rocked, as he shuddered with sobbing breaths, not crying, just fighting for air that seemed suddenly hard to find.

"Did I - ?" he managed, finally.

"You did," Yassen confirmed, kissing his hair and rubbing comforting hands down his back. "A clean shot, very neat. I'm proud of you," he added in a whisper, kissing him again.

Alex turned his face up and Yassen kissed him on the lips for good measure. "So very proud of you," he repeated, and Alex shook his head, miserably.

"I did a bad thing."

"No. You did a beautiful thing. And perfectly." 

Alex slumped against him, and Yassen wrapped strong arms around his chest, holding him close. 

\--

It was dark outside. Through the open window, the scratch of insects in the night, the scent of flowers. 

Yassen let himself quietly into their room, and Alex turned over on the bed, to look up at him.

"How are you feeling?" Yassen asked.

"Horrible." 

"It will pass. Are you hungry?" 

Alex shook his head, convulsively. "I need – "

Yassen put his head on one side. "What Alex? What do you need?" he coaxed, settling on the bed and drawing the boy closer.

It came out in a whisper. "I need you to hurt me."

"What?" breathed Yassen, half-laughing, but his eyes were serious. Hungry.

Alex leaned in, kissed the base of Yassen's neck. "Please," he whispered. "I can’t stand it. What I did. Make me feel – "

"Punished?" Yassen murmured, when Alex faltered. Alex nodded, not looking up.

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes." Hoarse, pleading.

Yassen took hold of him by the shoulders, and kissed him, once, on the lips. Tenderly.

Then pushed him down on the bed.

\--

It had never been like this, between them. The times they'd made love, it had always been that. They'd never, really, fucked. Up till now. Yassen had been holding back, hugely, Alex realised, somewhere between the sparks dancing across his vision as Yassen pounded him into the mattress. 

There was no actual violence, not in a literal sense. But there'd been no foreplay, no preparation. Alex had been stripped and pinned and brutalised. His wrists were bruised, his lips were swollen, and he ached inside with a raw fire. His thighs were marked and his back was scratched, and he came harder than he ever remembered, seeing stars, collapsing into Yassen's arms at the finish. 

\--

They moved from Mexico to Europe. Vienna, Florence, Madrid, Naples. Four cities, three more kills. Afterwards, Alex would shake uncontrollably, until Yassen took him to a darkened room somewhere and worked the guilt out of him in sex and pain and sweat.

Four months had passed, since Alex remembered waking up in the ruins of the building. Four months, and they were returning to the flat in New York. 

En route, Alex, curious. 

"Is there going to be a kill?" Both dreading and hoping. Dreading, because he knew how he would feel beforehand. Hoping, because he knew how Yassen would make him feel afterwards. 

They fucked, hard, a lot. Occasionally they made love. But only after Alex had made a kill, would Yassen go as far as Alex wanted him to, begged him to, to hurt him and violate him and make him sob with agonised ecstasy.

But Yassen shook his head. "Not this time. Something else. Just a delivery, a switch." But he smiled, slightly, acknowledging the impulse behind the question.

Alex had subsided into his thoughts. They were alone in the back of a private jet, courtesy of a grateful and anonymous – to Alex at least – client.

"Do you only kill people that you think deserve it?" Alex asked, suddenly.

Yassen went momentarily still, then gave a twist of the lips.

"No," he confessed simply, knowing Alex was unlikely to let it drop.

"I think I could only ever kill people that deserved it," Alex concluded, thoughtfully.

"That can be a dangerous path to go down," Yassen warned. "Setting yourself up as judge, jury and executioner? Where does that end? Better to do it only for the money. It's – purer, that way."

"But you've only asked me to kill people that definitely deserved it."

Yassen conceded the point. "It can be easier that way, when you're learning."

"I don’t think I could ever kill someone who hadn't done anything wrong."

"What's 'wrong'? Only a matter of opinion."

"Even so", Alex persisted, uncomfortably. He didn’t like disagreeing with Yassen, and was relieved when the Russian smiled, and stroked a hand down his cheek.

"Then you must become very, very good at it, little one. Then you can pick and choose the jobs you take," he murmured, laughing.

Alex impulsively closed the distance between them and kissed him. "I love you," he whispered.

Yassen gathered Alex into his arms and kissed him back, softly. Gradually, their kisses turned from gentle and exploratory to something harder, more demanding, and before long they'd tumbled from the seat to the carpet, and Alex's jeans were round his knees and Yassen was fucking him hard and fast and mercilessly, until they both came in a shuddering, swearing tangle of limbs.

\--

Four months, since the bomb. Alex dreamed of it, sometimes, that first awakening, dreamed that he was lying on the bed of broken brick, staring into a blue sky that was empty to infinity. Then he would truly awake, sweating and disoriented, heart racing. If Yassen was sleeping next to him, he would nestle into his side, thankful for the Russian's warm presence, and an arm would curl round him, seemingly without waking. 

Sometimes, if Yassen hadn't been in the bed with him, Alex would wake in his arms nonetheless, gently roused from the nightmare, but at those moments he would fancy he could see something in Yassen's eyes that he couldn’t define. A hesitancy, almost, as if he was waiting for something that never came.

Sometimes Alex would wonder aloud when his memory would return, and Yassen would tell him dismissively not to push it, that the best thing was to carry on as normal.

Sometimes, he dreamed of a girl – woman – and couldn't put a name to her. 

\--

"Jack." Alex was sitting bolt upright in bed, staring into the dark.

"Alex?" Beside him, Yassen stirred sleepily, and glancing at the green digits of the clock Alex realised he'd only been asleep for 30 minutes. 

"I've been – there's been this woman, in my dreams. And it's like I knew her, but I didn’t know how. And tonight, I remembered her name. Jack." He turned confused eyes on Yassen. "Who is she?"

Yassen sat up, sighed. "She was your housekeeper."

"Was?"

"She died, remember?"

Alex scowled. "No, I don’t remember, that's the bloody point!" He scrambled out of the bed, paced, naked, over to the window. "Why did you never mention her?"

Yassen shrugged, lay down again. "I didn’t realise you required an inventory of previous staff." 

"It could have been important!"

"Alex! Come back to bed."

"I don’t want to."

"That wasn't a request," snapped Yassen, coldly, and after a second Alex reluctantly crept back under the covers. He lay awake for a long time, Yassen, facing away from him, apparently asleep again in seconds.

\--

After that night, the dreams – fragments, mostly – seemed to become more frequent, more intense. Alex felt like shreds of something were coalescing, like a picture forming in disturbed water coming to rest. He tried to reach out but the image distorted again, and he was left grasping at nothing.

People, faces, came and went. And flashes of places, and of pain. There seemed, somehow, to be a lot of pain, in his memories. Alex wondered, now, for the first time, whether he wanted his memory to return. Yassen had hinted that his wasn't an especially happy past, while remaining exasperatingly vague on the details. 

\--

It was a stupid thing, in the end, that brought it back. An association of words, nothing more. People in the corridor outside the flat, arguing, one voicing an opinion, the other declaring in a drawl " _Well, to be blunt I'd say that was a load of hogwash. You couldn't –_ "

Alex never caught the end of the sentence, he was suddenly seeing again one of the anonymous faces from his dreams. Blunt. _Alan_ Blunt. MI6. Alex's sometime boss. His _boss_.

White faced, Alex slumped onto a dining chair. It had all come back, in an instant. Like a floodgate had opened it was all there, complete. Blunt. Mrs Jones. His father, his uncle. Jack. 

Yassen.

Alex only just made it to the bathroom before he was violently, desperately sick. 

\--

When Yassen returned to the apartment later that afternoon, it took him a second to spot Alex. He was sitting curled on the table against the far wall, Yassen's gun in his hand, tears on his cheeks. The gun pointing unwaveringly at Yassen's chest.

The Russian closed the door carefully behind him, stepped into the room.

"Stay where you are!" Alex's voice was shaking, but his hands on the gun were steady.

Yassen looked at him, then nodded, almost to himself, accepting.

"I take it your memory has finally returned?" he asked quietly.

Alex was chewing his lower lip, fighting back the tears threatening to overwhelm him. "You _bastard_."

"Alex – " Yassen took a step closer, then another. 

"Stay back!" Alex's voice went up a note, edge of panic creeping in.

"Alex, I won’t hurt you."

"Damn right you won’t. Because I'm the one with the gun Yassen." A sickened look passed over Alex's face. "Those people. You made me _kill_ people."

Yassen gave a one shouldered shrug, took another step closer. "They all deserved it. You agreed that. I picked them for you."

"You made me think I was a killer!"

"You are a killer. Maybe I just made you a little more honest."

Yassen was barely five steps away now, and the gun was starting to shake.

"You – the things you did to me – "

Yassen held his gaze, steadily. "Nothing you didn’t ask me to do, Alex," he murmured. "I never touched you in any way you weren't happy with at the time."

"Stop it."

"I'm not doing anything Alex."

"Stay where you are!"

"You going to kill me Alex? I thought you said you weren't a killer."

Yassen was right in front of him now, inches away. 

"You – you – "

"What's the matter Alex? Are you angry because I made you feel something for once?"

The gun was pressing against Yassen's chest now, right over his heart. Yassen leaned forward, the barrel of the gun creasing the material of his shirt. 

"Can you do it Alex? Can you kill me?"

"You made me believe you loved me!"

The words came out in a rush, strangled and accusatory, the tears running unheeded down Alex's face again.

Yassen didn’t blink. "I do," he said, quietly.

"Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not lying Alex. I do love you. And if you don’t believe that, then you might as well pull that trigger."

Alex looked down, unable to bear the steady blue eyes any longer, and Yassen carefully wrapped his fingers around the barrel of the gun, inching it away.

Alex let go, and Yassen breathed again, tossing the gun to the sofa.

"It was all lies." Alex sounded broken. "We were never lovers. We never worked together. You used me. Did you think it was funny? Some sort of sick revenge?"

"It wasn't lies. Maybe it was just – what could have been." Yassen reached out, tilted Alex's face up. "And I have always loved you, Alex."

He leaned over, kissed Alex softly on the mouth, tasting the tears on his lips.

For a second, Alex let him, his eyes closed, and his heart aching. The he pulled away, and slid off the table. 

"I hate you," he said flatly. "I hate you for what you did to me. What you made me into. If I ever see you again Yassen, I'll kill you. Don’t think I won’t."

"Alex. Alex!" Yassen moved towards him, but Alex turned then and ran, slamming the door of the apartment behind him.

Yassen stared at the door for a long while, expressionless. 

\--

Alex found an anonymous hotel, shut himself away in a room with the curtains closed and curled in on himself, wracked with sobs, finally, bone-achingly alone.

He was remembering the loneliness, now. How alone he'd always been. For a while he hadn’t been. For a while he'd thought that he loved someone, and was loved back. And to find it was all a lie hurt more than any mortal wound.

\--

Three days later, he finally ventured out of the hotel, pale and exhausted. He'd made a decision. He would go back. And either Yassen would kill him, or keep him. Either way, he wouldn’t have to live with his own aching soul anymore.

There was no answer to his first knock, but he kept banging on the door until it was opened. 

He blinked. The person glaring back at him was a short rotund black woman. He stuttered an apology, thinking he'd somehow got the wrong door, but a glance told him he hadn’t. He pushed his way inside, heedless of the woman's increasingly irate objections.

The flat was as he remembered it, but not a stick of Yassen's furniture was left. Someone else's possessions were cluttering the space where they'd lived, and eaten, and fucked.

A man in a vest was staring at him from the table, finally getting to his feet at his wife's goading, but Alex was leaving, muttering vague apologies.

Yassen was gone.

\--

Alex returned to England. There was nothing else he could think of to do. 

He wandered in a miserable half-daze through the rooms of the empty house in Chelsea (Jack, long gone, Yassen had been right about that, anyway).

But others, it appeared, _had_ been waiting, and watching. He'd been there less than an hour, when the door burst open and a group of armed men rushed in. 

Alex let them take him, almost dispassionately. If he was to be killed at least that solved the problem of what to do with the rest of the life he no longer had an interest in.

But it was worse than that.

"Alex Rider. I don’t suppose you'd like to explain what you think you've been doing exactly for the last four months, hmmn?"

Cold grey eyes, in a cold grey face, the only expression in the flared nostrils. Alex stared sullenly back at Alan Blunt and found himself picturing crosshairs across the pinched face. Shook himself.

"I had amnesia. I didn’t know who I was." Even as he explained, he knew they wouldn’t believe him. He couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t have. 

"I came back as soon as my memory returned. And you bundled me up here like a criminal. Why?"

Blunt exchanged a meaningful glance with the woman standing to the side of his desk, and she reached into an envelope, drew out some pictures. Didn’t give them to him at first, stood there fingering them almost hesitantly. 

Alex wondered if Mrs Jones did actually believe him. But it wouldn’t stop her doing what was necessary.

"Fernandez. Gehrer. Castillo. Andrews."

Alex shook his head. "Who are they?" But he knew. He wasn't stupid. Yassen had never told him the names, on the grounds it would make them into people for him, rather than targets. 

The photos flipped onto the table, the faces of Alex's victims. He stared at them, no emotion left, all emotion already spent, over these four. 

"If you knew where I was, why didn't you get me out?" he demanded suddenly.

Blunt twitched. "Wouldn’t be the first time you've switched sides. We had no reason to suppose you weren't with Gregorovich under your own free will."

"Even though I was killing people?" Alex sounded incredulous, and Blunt shrugged.

"I'm sure it hasn’t escaped your notice your earlier particular use to us is rather – diminished, these days. If Gregorovich wanted to train you – well. It might have come in handy. And while you were – removing – people we had no objections regarding, there was no reason to stop you."

"You're disgusting."

"I didn’t just kill four men in the space of four months."

Alex spun to face the door, breathing hard. "Am I free to go?" 

It was Mrs Jones that answered. "Yes Alex. Although we'd prefer you to stay. We have a proposition for - "

The door banged behind him before she'd even finished the sentence.

\--

Neon light on black water. 

Alex walked slowly along the quayside, looking up at the lights of the grand hotel across the road. Remembering. 

It had been summer, then. The glorious Italian summer, soft air and the clink of ropes against expensive masts. They'd been passing through, for once being couriers rather than killers. 

Yassen had taken a room in the most amazing hotel Alex had ever seen, ornate without being gaudy, exuding history as much as wealth. He'd been to explore the city, returning later than Yassen, and entering their room had stopped in amazement.

The room was circled by candles, filled with a golden glow like the light of a medieval heaven. 

Yassen had drawn him in, wordlessly, undressed him and made love to him on the deep, soft carpet, surrounded by the candles.

"You look like an angel," he'd whispered, looking down at Alex's lithe, pale body, all blonde locks and sharp hips and long limbs.

"Fallen or otherwise?" Alex had smiled.

"Teetering," Yassen laughed, stroking Alex's lower lip with a gentle thumb.

He'd held Alex's gaze, for a long moment. Then – 

"I love you, Alex." Softly. The only time he'd ever said it before that last fateful day. But Alex had had no doubt, then, that he meant it.

Alex, hair plastered with autumn drizzle, looked up at the lights of the hotel, and they blurred as his eyes filled with tears. 

He didn’t know why he'd come here. Some stupid memory, that was all. Had he expected to walk in and find Yassen waiting for him? He'd almost gone in and asked, but he wouldn't have known what name, and he couldn’t remember the room number. And Yassen wouldn’t have been there anyway. And if he had, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Alex.

He walked out, unseeing, to the end of a jetty, staring down into the deep, cold water for an eternity. So easy, to take one more step forward. Just one, and then he could sleep. All over. No more pain. Just soft darkness.

Alex wiped his nose and set his shoulders. Looked around, once, steeling himself to step forward, then checked, almost lost his balance and stepped back hastily. Stared, through the night, convinced that he was seeing things.

Tied to the next jetty, a boat he'd only seen years before, but the elegant lines and the association clear in his mind. And then, confirmation, a light from a yacht heading out to sea, sweeping across the nameplate.

The Fer-de-lance. 

He gave a choked sob, and span, intending to run as fast as he could before it vanished like dawn mist.

But having turned he checked again, with a stifled gasp.

A few feet away under one of the jetty lights, a man, watching him.

He staggered forwards, hardly knowing what to say, or how to say it.

" _Yassen_." It was closer to a sob, and the figure took a single step forwards, then he, too checked himself. They stared at each other, gradually inching closer, hesitant and wary.

Yassen took in Alex's tearstained face, and frowned. 

"I saw you," he said, eventually. "From the boat. You looked like you were going to – so I – had to – in case - " He stopped and half laughed at his own unaccustomed awkwardness.

Alex smiled, ruefully. "I was." 

Yassen took another step forward. " _Why_?"

Alex shrugged, sadly. "No reason not to," he whispered. "Not any more."

They were close now, so close, and staring at each other. 

" _Alex_." 

"I take it back," Alex said quickly. "What I said. About wanting to kill you." 

Yassen did laugh then, at the ridiculousness of it all. "Well. That's – good."

Alex bit his lip. "Do you want to kill _me_?"

"No." Yassen shook his head, and smiled sadly. "I would never hurt you Alex. Never."

"You said – here. You said you – "

"That I loved you. I do, Alex. I have for a long time. And I'm sorry."

"I – don’t think I can forgive you," Alex managed. "For making me kill those people." 

Yassen, face carefully expressionless, nodded, accepting. 

"Why did you – Yassen, _why_? All of it, why?"

"In the beginning? Honestly? I don’t know," Yassen confessed. "I just – took a chance, when it was offered. I wanted you Alex, so badly. I never expected – I thought your memory would return, in a few days, I thought you would remember, and hate me, and maybe we would kill each other and maybe we wouldn’t."

"But – you didn’t remember," he whispered. "For so long. And - I know I tried to make you into something you weren't. I was wrong to. But I never – " he passed a hand over his face, shaking his head.

"What I never expected was that I would fall so completely in love with you. And now you know the truth, and you hate me and that, that is your revenge on me Alex."

"I don’t hate you." 

Yassen looked disbelievingly wary. "You said – "

"I said I couldn't forgive you for _that_. For everything else – yes. That – well, I guess that I'll just have to forget."

"But – "

"I _love you_ Yassen!" Alex cried finally, in frustrated laughter. "I was about to chuck myself in the harbour because I couldn’t find you for fuck's sake."

"All that tells me is you're irrational and hysterical," Yassen remarked, but he was laughing too. 

"I hate you." Alex was in front of him now, close enough to feel the warmth from Yassen's skin.

Yassen smiled, stroking a thumb over Alex's cheek, wiping away the drying tears. "Make your mind up."

Alex snorted with laughter, rubbing at his own eyes, and shaking his head. "I can’t think straight around you."

"Then I suggest you stop thinking and just fucking kiss me," Yassen murmured, and suited his actions to the words, bending to capture Alex's mouth with his own.

It was warm, and passionate, and to Alex, it felt like coming home.

\--


End file.
